


The Potions Master

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, PxS: Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 04:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11729400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: To become the master of a subject, to reach its highest highs, one must plumb the lowest lows.





	1. Chapter 1

“Far too much mugwort,” Professor Baelish’s silken voice hums in her ear, sending a shiver up her spine. Half the seventh years are terrified of the man-- his eyes sharp, his tongue sharper-- failing them without worry or care, accepting only perfection. 

Sansa knows she’s lucky to be in Advanced Potions. Only 20 students had been accepted, thirteen of those from Professor Baelish’s own Slytherin House. A Gryffindor in Advanced Potions wasn’t totally unheard of, but it gave Sansa a sense of pride to be standing there, in the dungeon, with her red and gold tie close about her neck. 

She doesn’t feel that same pride now. The additional mugwort is a first year mistake, and she feels her face flush a deeper red, suddenly sweating despite the eternal chill of the basement dungeon classroom. 

“Sorry, Professor,” she mumbles, and moves the liquid from the fire, preparing to dump it out, when Professor Baelish’s hand stops her. 

“Fix it,” he says, in that infuriating even measured tone he takes when one of them does something wrong. Sansa resists the urge to scowl. 

“That’s what I’m doing,” she says, but Professor Baelish tsks at her. 

“No, you’re starting over. That is not fixing the problem, it’s attempting to erase it. Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Stark. Now fix it.” 

This time, Sansa does scowl at the professor’s retreating back, hating him for the chastisement and loss of points, and craving his praise in equal measure. His robes, threaded through with cloth-of-silver shimmers as he moves, same as the surface of the potion they’re supposed to be making. 

All around her in the dungeon her peers seem to be making the complicated draught to varying degrees of success, and she stares down at her own cauldron wondering how to go about fixing her mistake. 

She stares down at her mess in the cauldron, mentally running through the lists of spells she knows, wondering if any of them work to remove something from a liquid when it dawns on her that she doesn’t need to _remove_  the mugwort, she needs to _counter_  it. 

She hastily reaches for a measure of burdock root, when she hears Professor Baelish clear his throat, and she looks up for the first time. Her neck cricks and before she can wonder how long she’s been staring down, she notices that the dungeon is entirely empty and eerily quiet. 

It’s just the two of them. 

“Class ended nigh on an hour ago,” Professor Baelish tells her. “Several called your name, but you were entranced in thought.” 

“I figured out how to fix it,” she says, shuffling her feet, unable to meet his gaze. He must think her stupid, to sit here staring at a cauldron, to take so long to figure out the remedy to her careless mistake. 

“As I knew you would, Miss Stark,” he tells her, crossing the room to her side. “Go on then,” he says, nodding to the burdock root in her hand. “Fix it.” 

She adds the measure, and stirs-- thrice clockwise, five times counterclockwise, and watches as her potion turns from a greenish-gray to the silvery black it’s supposed to be. 

She sighs in relief. 

“Few Potions Masters could figure that out,” Professor Baelish says, and offers her a rare smile. “You are quite the clever girl to have figured it out,” he tells her, and Sansa flushes at the praise. 

“It took me ages though,” she says, and drops his gaze again, embarrassed at her mistake, but Professor Baelish cups her chin with his cool hands and lifts her face up so that their eyes might meet.

“You have a gift, Miss Stark,” he says, holding her gaze, and Sansa hates that she can feel her eyes widen-- hates that he can probably feel her pulse race under where his fingertips touch her skin. 

“I’d like to help you hone that, if you’ll let me,” he continues, and the words are barely out of his mouth before she is nodding her answer. 

“Yes,” she says, near breathless, heart racing for reasons she can’t quite understand. 

Professor Baelish smiles at her, and moves his hand from her face. Sansa struggles not to frown at the loss of contact. 

“Let’s start then. Tell me the properties of this potion.” 

“The _Avaritias_ Potion is considered highly dangerous in large quantities. In proper doses it raises ambition and drive to the user to spur them to obtain whatever it is they seek. In large quantities it makes the user exceptionally greedy-- making them do silly things to get what they want,” Sansa recites automatically. 

The potion is actually banned in many schools, but Professor Baelish had insisted on them learning it. 

_You’ll learn more from what is banned than what is approved_ , he tells them each time he pushes them to some new height. 

“Would you ever drink it, Miss Stark?” 

Professor Baelish’s grey-green eyes are boring into her, and she can still feel his hands on her. Absurdly, she wishes his hands had been on more than just her face. She pushes the thought away and tries not to blush. 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It seems so dangerous. No one can agree on the right amount and--”

“Why do you think that is?” Professor Baelish interrupts her, and she can tell from the look in his eyes that this is a test. 

She considers it. 

“Because we’d all...” she trails off, trying to find the right way to phrase it.”We’ll all have different thresholds for greed.” 

Professor Baelish’s eyes light up, and he gifts her with another rare smile. 

“My clever girl,” he says, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek.

Sansa shivers and tries leans into his touch, but his fingers are gone.  

“Go now,” he motions to the door. “Surely you’ve got other classes.” 

She gathers her things quickly, the sting of dismissal eating at her.

“We’ll continue again next week, Miss Stark,” Professor Baelish offers to her retreating back as she nears the door. 

She doesn’t turn around.

Sansa is afraid he’ll see the desire in her eyes for _more._


	2. Chapter 2

“Have you been studying, Miss Stark?” 

As ever, Professor Baelish has managed to creep up on her, his footsteps silent, his long, inky cloak barely stirring. Even here, in the dungeon, where so much as the tapping of a quill seems to cause a magnified echo, he is silent as a shadow. 

Sansa holds up her copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ for him to see. 

“I have, sir,” she tells him eagerly. “There are several potions I think are interesting and I’d like--” 

Professor Baelish tsks at her. 

“I’m disappointed, Miss Stark.”

She feels her face fall. 

“I was under the impression that you would be my star pupil, and yet when I tell you to study you simply read though a textbook I have assigned to an entire class? Obviously I want everyone to learn this material. Why would I ask you to study extra if you’d just end up with the same knowledge?” 

She feels sheepish, can feel a flush creeping over her cheeks. She should have known better. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t--” 

“You should have,” Professor Baelish says flatly. “Come.” 

He turns quickly, his cloak flowing out gracefully behind him as he pivots and makes his way quickly out of the dungeon. 

Sansa scurries to catch up. Professor Baelish is a slight man, but he moves quickly, and before long she finds herself almost panting with effort to keep up with his pace. They reach the library in what Sansa feels like is record time. The back of her neck is sweating and she’s sure her hair is mussed. 

Professor Baelish looks pristine as always. 

He strides in, without so much as a nod to the librarian, Professor Dustin, who glares at him but doesn’t say a word. Helplessly and silently, Sansa follows. 

Though she should have expected it, Sansa is surprised when he leads her to the restricted section. 

“This,” Professor Baelish hisses in a silken whisper, “is studying, Miss Stark.” He gestures to stacks of books around him, each one more foreboding than the last. “This is where a true potions master might find the knowledge that few others are fortunate to understand.” 

“Most of these potions are illegal, aren’t they?” Sansa asks, staring at the titles. There are a few in languages she has never seen, let alone can understand. 

“Made illegal by men who do not understand them,” Professor Baelish murmurs, his mouth now right near her ear. “What a world we might live in if those who understood world made the laws.” 

She suppresses a shiver at his words, and turns her head so that he might not see her blush, and the silvery spine of a slim book catches her eye. 

She reaches for it, but Professor Baelish gets there before her, and their hands brush. 

“It will howl something awful if you hands touch it first, remember?” He says, and gives her the kindest smile she’s seen him give. 

He hands her the book, a thin, almost metallic looking thing. 

“This is one of my favorites,” he whispers, running his fingers over the cover, brushing the tips of her fingers again. “Open it,” he urges, as though she holds a priceless present in her hands. 

She does.

To her confusion the pages are entirely blank, not a word or a mark written on them.

“I don’t understand,” she says, looking up at him, and down at the book again. She tries to hold it up to the sconce nearby to see if it is a trick of the light, but that reveals nothing. 

“Come now, Miss Stark,” Professor Baelish says, and takes the book from her hands. He steps closer her, holds the book up closer to her face.

“Close your eyes, Sansa,” he says, and she suppresses another shiver. It is the first time he has said her name. “Breathe. What do you smell.” 

She breathes deep, and the smell of mint floods her senses. 

“Mint,” she says, opening her eyes, to find Professor Baelish smirking at her. 

“That’s me,” he says drily, leaning so close his lips brush her cheek. “Try again.” 

Sansa closes her eyes, and breathes deeply again. The mint is there, of course, he’s even closer than before, but she pushes it from her mind and breathes again. 

“It’s... floral,” she says. “Something earthy, but floral.” 

It hits her then, her eyes flying open to lock with his.  

“It’s in invisible ink, isn’t it?” Sansa whispers to him. He’s still so close so that her every word causes her lips to brush his ear. “I’m going to have to figure out the properties of whatever the ink is, then make a potion to brush over the pages to reveal it!” 

Her tone is triumphant, and the smile he gives her fills her with warm. He looks so proud. 

“Well done, Sansa,” he says, making no move to pull away. “Would you like a hint?” 

She’s tempted to say no, to figure it out all on her own, but it’s so rare that he’s so generous.

She nods.

Professor Baelish leans forward, closing the already small gap between them, and presses his mouth to hers. Her mouth opens in surprise, and his tongue is there instantly. The minute she catches herself-- either to respond or to push him away, she hasn’t decided-- he has already pulled away, and has pressed the book into her hands. 

All she can taste is mint. 

“Good luck, Miss Stark,” Professor Baelish says, formal as ever, not even breathless or disheveled the way she’s sure she is. 

“I expect you’ll have it solved by our next meeting.” 


	3. Chapter 3

She hesitates in knocking on the door to his office. 

Professor Baelish is not known for his kindness, or his out of class tutoring. 

All the same, he _had_  told her to come find him when she’d finished decoding the book.  

The task had taken her  _weeks_  of time. Each spare moment between classes and Apparition lessons and Arya’s and Bran’s quidditch games were spent on the old potions book written in invisible ink he’d plucked from the shelves of the Restricted Section and handed to her. 

_He kissed you then too,_ Sansa thinks to herself, but pushes the thoughts away abruptly. It would not do to be flushed and thinking of kissing him when he opened the door. Instead she thinks of the absolute trial the book had been, turning the simple silvery book over and over in her hands. 

Weeks of casting spells to reveal the ink’s properties, weeks of stewing and stirring ingredients and _finally_ , finally, she’d finished it, where she could brush it over the pages with care, drinking in each word as they revealed themselves. 

It had taken her a week to read through and memorize the whole thing, pausing a few times to shudder at the vile potions she read about. She had used the entire batch of potion. But she felt the thrill of victory, to know that she had overcome a near impossible task. 

To know she’d soon have the praise from him that she absolutely craved. 

He opens the door slowly, almost as if he dreaded meeting some student outside his door. She expects his face to change when he sees her, and when it doesn’t she feels her stomach clench unpleasantly. 

“Miss Stark,” he says, and makes a show of checking his pocket watch. “It is almost time for dinner. What on earth brings you all the way from Gryffindor Tower to my dungeon?” 

There is something about the way he says _my_  that makes her suppress a shiver.

“I’ve decoded the book, sir,” she tells him, some of her eagerness lost. But Professor Baelish’s face breaks into a smile-- a real one, not the fake ones he greets other professors with-- and he opens the door wider to usher her inside. 

“Well done, Miss Stark,” he says warmly, and she preens at his praise. He gestures for her to take the seat opposite his desk, and she does, waiting for him to settle into his own seat before launching into a detailed description of how she’d done it. 

He doesn’t interrupt her. He lets her talk and smiles at her the whole while. When she is finished he claps. 

“Clever, clever girl,” he says, and Sansa can feel herself glow at his praise. She doesn’t think she’s _ever_ heard Professor Baelish call a student clever. 

“Thank you, sir,” she says, beaming at him, all eagerness and victory returned to her. 

“But Sansa,” he starts, and she feels a thrill at the way he says her name, “what did you think of the _contents_  of the text?” 

She frowns slightly, uncomfortable with much of what she had memorized in order to please him. 

“Confused, sir,” she admits, thinking it best to be honest. Professor Baelish, after all, was not a man who abided being lied to. 

He motions for her to continue and she does. 

“In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Forel taught us about Unforgivable Curses. He never once mentioned Unforgivable Potions!” 

“Because many a witch and wizard do not know they exist,” he says, shrugging as though he hasn’t just revealed something awful. “When they fall under the grasp of these potions, they just assumed they’ve been hit with a curse. Tell me, Sansa, why does that make the potions more dangerous?” 

She frowns, mulling the thought over in her mind. 

“It would be easier,” she begins, a vision of the Great Hall centered in her mind, “to give the potion to many people at once. Whereas for each curse you have to cast it one person at a time.” 

Professor Baelish nods at her, and gestures to the book she still clings to. 

“Why then would we not use the potion version of the three main Unforgivable Curses?” 

She pauses again, closing her eyes to recall the ridiculous list of steps and ingredients each potion called for. 

“The complexity of the potions?” She guesses, and hates that it comes out as a question, rather than a statement. 

Professor Baelish shakes his head, but doesn’t look disappointed in her. 

“In part, perhaps,” he says, to soften to blow of an incorrect answer. “But there is a more pressing reason.” 

“Antidotes,” Sansa says suddenly, the thought suddenly clear. “If there’s a potion, there must be an antidote. Golpalott’s Third Law.”

He smiles at her. “Well done, Sansa. Now, those antidotes would be wretched to make, and like as not it would be too late for many of the victims of an Unforgivable Potion to work, but still. Imagine going through the toil of creating the _Imperius Potion_  only to have its effects reversed because some lucky sod was carrying around an antidote?” 

Sansa laughs at little, but the thought makes her uncomfortable. The _odds_  of someone having that kind of antidote were slim to none. 

“What did you think of the others?” Professor Baelish asks, looking at her intently from across the desk. 

“I was surprised that there were so many more unforgivable potions than curses,” she admits. “I knew that love potions were banned, but I didn’t know _how_  many different types there were.” 

“Ah yes,” Professor Baelish says. “Manufactured love and lust are the most dangerous of poisons in our world, Sansa. _And_  the most valuable,” he emphasizes. 

“Men spend good gold for just the _scent_  of Amortentia so they might hazard a guess of who their true love is. Imagine the market for a potion that makes it easier to stomach an arranged marriage, or to find out precisely what excites you.” 

Professor Baelish’s gray-green eyes gleam and the smile he gives her makes her shudder. 

“You’ll brew Amortentia tonight, I think,” he says, gesturing toward his storeroom, “if you won’t object to having dinner down here. I’ll have an elf send us supper.” 

His gaze catches the question in Sansa’s face and he nods towards the book in her hands. 

“We cannot explore the darkest thoughts and desires of men and women if we have not mastered our own,” he says, by way of explanation. “If we are to study the potions we must know how to identify them by examining _our_ reaction to them.”

For one wild moment, Sansa thinks he’s going to make her drink the Amortentia she brews, but he chuckles at her. 

“I have no intention of making you love sick, Sansa,” he says, and _oh_  if the thought doesn’t send shivers down her spine. “You’ll see what I have in store.” 

Sensing an end to the conversation, Sansa heads to the storeroom for the ingredients, while Professor Baelish sends for food. 

She mixes what she can while nibbling on the meat pie the house elf had brought, and sipping on her tea. She can feel Professor Baelish’s eyes on her as she works, and fights the urge to blush. Several times, she has to stop herself from adding the wrong ingredient.

When it is done, when the only thing left is for the potion to stew for a month before adding the final ingredient, Sansa sits back. 

“Where should I store it for completion, sir?” 

Professor Baelish, instead of gesturing somewhere around the classroom, conjures a small vial and scoops some of the potion into it. 

It is a pale rose color, and for a moment, Sansa is so taken by the beauty of it, she forgets what it is for. 

“Breathe in,” Professor Baelish says, holding the vial under her nose. 

She hesitates. He senses it, and pulls the vial away slightly. 

“If you do not wish to, I will not ask it of you. If you do not, however, I would say our extra lessons are at an end.” 

“No, sir,” Sansa says quickly. “Only I... I know that fully brewed Amortentia will smell like what I’m attracted to.

_Mint,_ the voice in her head sings gleefully. She tries to ignore it. 

“I just don’t know what un-simmered Amortentia will do. It wasn’t in the text.” 

Professor Baelish’s eyes bore into her, and his face holds the barest hint of a smile. 

“Because few witches and wizards know,” he says simply, and holds the vial up again. 

She inhales. 

At once, her vision blurs, and when she shuts her eyes, images leap out at her. Professor Baelish, wearing heavy blue robes, cupping her naked breasts. Professor Baelish, naked, face buried between her legs. Herself, on her knees in this very dungeon office, lips wrapped around Professor Baelish’s cock. Professor Baelish, bending her over a desk, fucking her from behind. Professor Baelish, in the Restricted Section, pressing his lips to hers.

Suddenly her mind is clear. She blinks rapidly, the clear away the vestiges of her fantasies. 

“It’s _lust_ ,” she says, before she’s even really aware of what she’s saying. “Un-simmered Amortentia produces _lust_.” 

Professor Baelish gives her another true smile. 

“And that was just the scent of it,” he says, Vanishing the vial and liquid with a lazy flick of his wand. “Imagine what happens to the unwary witch or wizard in a rush to drink it or give it to someone.” 

“But--” Sansa says, unable to stop herself. “There were _many_ lust potions in this book,” she says, pointing to the little silver text. “Each one more difficult to brew than Amortentia. Why--” 

“An excellent question, Sansa,” Professor Baelish says, and smoothes her hair in an almost loving gesture. His touch makes the hair on her arms stand on end, and unbidden the images come rushing back. 

“Answer it for me,” he says, as it through a tunnel. 

“It would kill them,” Sansa whispers, as if she knew the answer all along. “They wanted love and instead got lust and it would kill them.” 

“Excellent,” Professor Baelish whispers, and Sansa isn’t sure when he got this close to her. She can see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and smell the mint on his breath again.

Wild, reckless from the mere scent of lust, she lunges forward and presses her lips to his, throwing her arms about his neck. 

To her disappointment, his arms do not wrap around her, don’t move to stroke her hair or cup her face. But he _does_  kiss back, his tongue meeting hers as it did before in the Restricted Section, before he is gripping her arms lightly and pushing her away. 

“Enough, Sansa,” he says, his voice a silken caress around her name.

But it isn’t enough, she wants to cry out, the same series of images flashing before her eyes.

“Breathe,” Professor Baelish says, and she wishes he would touch her, to stroke his hands up and down her back, but he doesn’t. 

She takes a few minutes to compose herself, and when she does he is smiling down at her. 

“The effects of the potion at this stage are vivid,” he says. It is not an apology or an admonishment. Sansa isn’t sure which she’d prefer. 

“Here,” he says, handing her what looked a large, old notebook. 

“Read through this. There will be more on unforgivable potions, and more on what happens at the various stages of brewing of more common ones.” 

“What’s this?” She says, thumbing through the book, gazing at the neat handwriting that filled nearly each page. “It doesn’t look like any published textbook.” 

“It’s not,” Professor Baelish says, simply. “These are my notes.” 

He scribbles her a pass through the halls back to her common room as the hour is late, and Sansa clutches the notebook to her chest like a treasure. 

“’Til we meet again, Miss Stark,” Professor Baelish says softly, and opens the door to see her out. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. 

“Sweet dreams,” he says, and Sansa swears she sees him smirk, as the images borne of her lust dance again in her mind.


End file.
